


That Kind of Freak

by monday7112



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Pre-Slash, Season/Series 02, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-07
Updated: 2012-08-07
Packaged: 2017-11-11 15:04:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/479789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/monday7112/pseuds/monday7112
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Four times, Dean Winchester refused to be THAT kind of freak when it comes to his baby brother.</p><p>And one time...he didn't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	That Kind of Freak

**Author's Note:**

> Written as a gift for my friend Rose, because she wanted post-Stanford Wincest pre-slash to slash but was afraid to go looking for it. I recommended the one I knew but quite inadvertently started writing this one for her as well after she told me of some brain!canon regarding Croatoan that was just begging to be written into fic. My muse is easily distracted by shiny, early-season brothers it would appear. 
> 
> Secondary note: It's been actual years since I've watched Croatoan so my details on how long the boys spent by themselves may require just a little bit of flexibility with canon but for the most part this fic is S2 canon compliant.

The first time it happens, he dismisses it as an anomaly, an artifact of the chaos and confusion of seeing Sam again for the first time in two years. Anyone would have noticed how tall and lean and muscled that Sam had gotten if they were wrestling him in the dark and the last time they’d seen the monolith that had entered the room had been when he was shorter than they were and weighed half as much. Totally normal. Nothing to worry about. Just a natural observation that his baby brother wasn’t such a baby anymore. The surge of jealousy that he’d felt when Jess had arrived on the scene had been a little bit more difficult to explain but really, he hadn’t seen his brother in two years. TWO years. The brother he had  helped to raise . Who was this woman coming in and acting like she had a claim to him? She didn’t even  know him. So really, the jealousy wasn’t all that surprising either, all things considered.   
  
It didn’t mean a thing.  And Sam could shut his fat mouth if he was going to tease him  every time Dean insisted he go into the bathroom when he changes. Because Christ. He didn’t need to look at his baby brother half naked across the room every morning and every night, okay? Privacy. That’s what bathrooms are for, anyway.  
  
* * *  
  
The next time it happens, they’re in east Texas. It’s hot as hell outside and he’s practically melting as he walks into the room to begin with. And there’s Sam. In a fucking towel. Practically begging Dean to look at him. And okay, so he sneaks a sideways glance. Mostly, he’s just making sure Sam didn’t see him putting the itch powder into his jeans.   
  
He doesn’t really know what to do with the fact that he has to think about a wendigo to keep himself from going half hard at the sight of Sam standing there. Did he mention he was  only wearing a towel? So he doesn’t think about it. Because there is absolutely  no way that he noticed the jut of Sam’s hip or the way the drops of water on his still damp body were running slowly through the cuts of Sam’s abs—and Christ. WHEN had he put on that muscle, anyway? He was still just a kid dammit—until they disappeared beneath the towel. And he definitely, DEFINITELY did not think of following that same trail with his tongue and removing the damn towel so he could explore what was underneath.  
  
And even if he did, the thoughts are obviously some sort of delusion, brought on by the ridiculous heat. Probably Sam had also slipped some sort of aphrodisiac into his drink as one of his pranks. Either way, he hadn’t really meant to think them. It had been outside of his control.  Because that is not the kind of thing that one thinks about their baby brother and yes, he knows that they are not normal people but he refuses to be THAT kind of freak, okay.   
  
Still, it makes complete and total sense that from now on he makes Sam put a sock on the door if he’s going to take a shower while Dean’s out. Privacy. Is that too much to ask for?  
  
* * *  
  
The third time it happens, Dean really can’t be bothered to care anymore. Sam’s been infected with the Croatoan virus and they’ve long since been left alone. The way he has it figured, Sam’s dead in a few hours and he’s dead shortly thereafter. Or the other way around. He doesn’t really care at this point, he’s just pretty damn sure that neither one of them are getting out of there alive.  All he’s got left is keeping Sam’s spirits up until he turns. So they’re playing cards and Sam is sitting on the floor, leaned back against the wall, legs all stretched out in front of him and smiling because he’s about to win. They’re about to die but Sam’s still giddy because he’s finally beat Dean at a game of gin.   
  
Dean’s long since forgotten about the card game. He’s just staring at Sam, wondering why he never got a fucking break and wishing he could take it all away, every last bit of it—the pain that haunts Sam’s eyes when he thinks about Jessica, the dark shadow that has followed Sam his whole life, would still follow him if they somehow managed to get out of this alive, the misguided guilt he carries about not killing his own damn father so John wouldn’t have had to sell his soul to save Dean. He’d take it all, in a second, if it means that Sam doesn’t have to carry the burden.  Jesus, Sam is the only light in Dean’s entire life. What had Sam ever done to deserve any of this?  
  
Sam’s too focused on the card game to notice that Dean’s been staring just a little too long. Or if he does notice, he doesn’t say anything and Dean allows himself to wonder a little bit about that, too as long as he’s indulging in some wishful thinking anyway.  
  
“Gin!” Sam exclaims triumphantly, throwing down his cards and flashing Dean a smile that Dean would give his right arm just to keep on seeing every day of his life. Dean tosses down his own cards and fakes disgust.  
  
“You got lucky,” he says. “I was distracted.”   
  
And it’s true. Sam’s legs are fucking distracting.  So is his smile and his stupid perfect straight teeth.  Dean coughs. He needs to focus. Dead by tomorrow or not, he can’t take care of Sam if all he is thinking about is taking Sam.  And he’s really got to be some kind of sick asshole anyway, to be thinking about Sam like that  at all , let alone  here , right now.  “How are you feeling, anyway?” he asks because he’s clearly thinking about the virus infecting his brother and  not  the curve of Sam’s lips or what else his tongue, which is brushing over them absently, wetting them slightly, might be good at doing.  
  
“Fine,” Sam says with a shrug. “Tired, I guess, but I still feel like me, if that’s what you’re asking.”  
  
Dean stands up and looks around the room. He finds some blankets in a cupboard and fashions them into a makeshift bed. It’s not much, but they’ve slept on worse. “Here,” he says gruffly. “Lay down. It’s not going to do you any good to stay awake, anyway.”   
  
“No pillow,” Sam complains.  
  
Dean growls. “Find your own damn pillow,” he says, sliding into a sitting position beside the blankets. And Sam. Sam, God love him or hate him, gives him a sly grin and proceeds to lay his head in Dean’s lap.   
  
“Found one,” he says.  
  
Dean’s trying to talk himself into shoving Sam out of his lap and moving to the other side of the room when Sam looks up at him, eyes suddenly all unguarded and terrified and Dean just can’t. Can’t get up. Can’t walk away. Can’t do anything but sit here, threading his fingers through Sam’s hair and humming “Hey Jude” softly. Dean’s been faking confidence his whole life but it’s taking everything he’s got right now not to show Sam exactly how terrified he is, too. And fuck if he doesn’t want to reassure Sam, tell him the only way he knows how that he’ll never be alone. Sam’s lips are soft and slightly wet from where his tongue has just swept over them and Dean’s not superhuman. He can no sooner stop himself from wanting to kiss those lips until Sam begs for mercy than he can stop Sam from turning into a monster in a few more hours. His breath catches in his throat and he swallows hard, trying to control his reaction but his dick is feeling heavy between his legs and he’s afraid that if he doesn’t move soon, Sam’s going to know  exactly how fucked up his big brother is.   
  
Sam’s expression has shifted now, to something entirely unreadable. He quirks a half-smile and says, “Isn’t this when you usually give the ‘last night on earth’ speech?” he asks and goddammit for a second there, Dean would swear he’s serious. Dean freezes. Nearly every cell in his body is telling him to run, to get the hell away from Sam but there’s a tiny voice in his head whispering that neither of them are going to see tomorrow anyway so why not just take this moment? But he can’t quite bring himself to do it. Can’t make himself give voice to the thoughts inside his head. He thinks of a dozen different retorts but every last one of them seem transparent. Sam’s waiting for a response though so he just growls, “Shut up, Sam.”  
  
Sam opens his mouth but closes it again, whatever he was going to say dropping like so many things into the silence between them. Sam closes his eyes and snuggles deeper into Dean’s lap, a noise of contentment escaping from his lips. Dean stays there until long after Sam is asleep, well beyond the point when his legs are falling asleep and his muscles are screaming at him to move, and at long last he allows himself to acknowledge what he’s really known since they first started. The thoughts he’s been having about Sam aren’t incidental. And they aren’t going to go away.   
  
He leans his head back against the wall, breathing evenly, hand on the gun but not falling asleep. At least he only has to live with the knowledge of his perversion for the rest of the night.   
  
The trouble is, Sam doesn’t hulk out. The bastard doesn’t even develop so much as a cough.  He wakes up the next morning, same overgrown Sam he’s always been. As a result, Dean doesn’t die either and all things considered, he counts that as a win. The problem is, now that he’s allowed himself to think about it,  permitted himself to feel it  without recrimination, there’s no going back to when he could pretend it was all innocent and the feelings weren’t real. Fuck it all, anyway. What the hell is he supposed to do now?  
  
* * *   


He's lost count of how many times he's caught himself having inappropriate thoughts about Sam at this point.

  
The problem is compounded by the fact that Sam is now clearly just fucking with him. It’s the only explanation. Since the virus-that-wasn’t didn’t actually kill them, Sam’s reverted back to refusing to change in the bathroom and more than once Dean has returned from getting dinner to find Sam walking around in a towel. Occasionally less. And he swears there’s a smirk on Sam’s face every damn time he turns around and leaves the motel room immediately.  
  
But Sam can’t be fucking with him. Because that would mean Sam knows. And Sam does  not  know. He can’t know. He hasn’t said anything. He hasn’t  done anything. And why the hell wouldn’t he beat the hell out of Dean for thinking it and then head out on his own. No. Sam doesn’t know. So it’s all in his head. It must be. He tries very hard not to think about what it says about  him that his head is creating fantasies in which his little brother not only knows that Dean’s attracted to him, but is actually, honestly, definitely encouraging that attraction instead of shutting it down and running for the door. Because. That’s just. Not an okay thing to think, and Dean knows it. So he simply doesn’t.   
  
Instead, he tries to focus on the job. Trouble is, ever since Dad died--before Dad died. His whole life, practically--Sam  is  the job. Keeping him safe. Making sure that whatever darkness is following him doesn’t take him. And Sam isn’t handling this whole ticking-time bomb thing very well. Not that Dean blames him. He wishes, not for the first time, that their father had been more specific. That he’d told Dean what he’s supposed to be looking for, what exactly might happen. Why hadn’t Sam been infected in Riverbend? Was it related? Where the hell had the demon virus come from? And why had everyone just disappeared? Was the virus gone too? He’s gone round and round with those questions more times than he can count, always careful not to do it when Sam’s around in case Sam notices. In a way it’s a relief. Because it takes his mind away from the  other problem with Sam.   
  
Except they went to the bar earlier tonight and now Sam’s drunk. He almost never gets drunk and it’s sort of endearing except in how he loses all sense of personal space. In the bar, he was leaning all over Dean, coming up behind him while they were playing pool and standing just a shade too close so that Dean can feel his breath on his neck. All he had to do was just turn around. Turn around and Sam’s mouth would be right there for him to capture with his own. Sam’s hands are  so  close that if he shifts his hips in the slightest, they’ll be touching his ass. And there’s no concentrating on pool after that, so Dean deliberately loses and heads to the restroom to splash some cold water on his face since a cold shower is out of the question right now.   
  
Dean makes Sam leave the bar after that, too angry at himself and his lack of self-control to stay and pretend he’s having fun or even earn a few dollars sharking the locals at darts. He swings the Impala into a parking space, shoves it into park and looks over at Sam. Sam’s slid down in the seat, knees all bunched up in front of him, hair flopping forward into his face and all Dean sees is his baby brother again, half asleep when Dad pulls up to the motel that they’ll call home for tonight, or the next week or even a month or two if they’re really lucky and there are a handful of hot spots in this region that Dad’s going to take out. And Dean can’t make heads or tails of it. Can’t figure out how he can possibly still see Sam as the little boy who needs his protection when so many of his thoughts are consumed with possessing Sam in every possible way. He figures he’s not drunk enough to try. He figures he’ll never be drunk enough.   
  
He watches Sam for a few seconds longer and opens the door of the car with a sigh. He’s sure as hell not going to figure out how to get over this without irrevocably destroying their relationship tonight. Certainly not right now, in this parking lot, with Sam looking so damn perfect and innocent and utterly delicious beside him. He gets out and walks around to the passenger side. Sam stirs awake and Dean reaches down to help him. “Come on Sam,” he says. “Time to go inside.”  
  
Sam’s eyes catch his and Dean’s breath hitches. The look in Sam’s eyes is anything but childish. Before he can figure out what to make of it, Sam has unfolded his body from the car and pinned Dean down, moving so suddenly and smoothly that Dean wonders for a second if Sam’s even drunk. Using every inch of his height to his advantage, he’s looking down at Dean and Dean’s so shocked his protest of “What the hell?” sounds more like a squeak than a warning.   
  
But then Sam’s mouth is on his, hot and wet and assaulting him with the taste of Jack Daniels mixed with bar peanuts and he can’t think. He just reacts, opening his mouth in response to Sam’s demand, tongues tangling, eager to taste more, to explore every inch. It’s wet and messy and not necessarily the best kiss Dean’s ever had but it’s  Sam and he’s not pushing Dean away, kissed Dean  first  even and something about that thought pushes every other protest he might have out of his head. Sam is all hands, too, his fingers tangling in Dean’s hair, forcing the kiss deeper until he’s satisfied that Dean is close enough and then trailing down his arms and over his hips, fingers digging in and shifting Dean until he’s settled between Sam’s legs and Dean can feel Sam’s cock pressed hard against his thigh and he can feel his own arousal pressed against his jeans, knows Sam can feel it too. Sam’s hands are slipping under his shirt and Dean is biting at Sam’s ear, relishing the sharp hiss of breath and the low whine this gets him when a door to one of the rooms opens and a woman’s voice shouts, “Take it inside!”  
  
The sound is enough to bring Dean crashing back to earth. Sam’s drunk and well beyond the point where he’s capable of giving consent. And although part of his brain is screaming that it’s not taking advantage if he only lets Sam get him off, the part of his brain responsible for his tenuous hold to reason is pointing out the very flawed reasoning in that logic. The fact of the matter is, he wouldn’t be going inside with anyone else this drunk. He does not get a pass on morality just because it’s his baby brother. But Sam’s still pressed against him, hard and hot next to Dean’s body, still mouthing at Dean’s neck in the spot that just a second ago had Dean driven half-mad and it’s almost too much to ask of him to stop this now.   
  
“Fuck,” he growls, which only seems to excite Sam further judging from the way he bites down a little. Dean groans as he forces his mouth away and pushes Sam, his “Get off me!” this time a desperate command that Sam listens to.   
  
Sam pulls back and leans against the car beside Dean, still breathing heavy, eyes still heavy lidded with desire. “Dean?” Sam says, voice confused, a note of what-- hurt? Rejection?--echoing in it. Whatever it is, it makes Dean’s heart ache and he wants to pull Sam against him and tell him that it’s not him. That he’s perfect and that Dean would love nothing more than to spend the rest of the night showing Sam just how badly he wants this to happen. But he can’t. And for more reasons than just because Sam’s drunk, although he’s grateful to have it handy as an excuse right now because he is entirely certain he would not have been able to keep this from going too far otherwise. Or, well. It’s already gone too far. It’s the only thing keeping him from taking it further. Even if consent wasn’t an issue, he doesn’t want Sam  here . Not like this. Not when there is every chance that he won’t even have any recollection of it the next day. That’s not how he wants their first time to be. It should be better than that. That’s right. He’s a goddamn gentleman, he is. At least where Sam’s concerned apparently, and the thought is almost enough to make him laugh.  
  
But Sam is looking so forlorn and dejected against the side of the car and Dean has no idea what to say to make it better, even as he wonders what he’s supposed to make of Sam’s behavior. He can’t stop the flare of hope that follows. Maybe he isn’t imagining things. Maybe Sam really is...what? Flirting with him? It’s such a ridiculous thought that he dismisses it outright. No. This...whatever  this was, means nothing at all about how Sam actually feels. Sam coming onto him while completely drunk in no way indicates that Sam actually wants them to do this. Dean sighs, rubbing his hand through his hair. He tugs at his jeans, trying to position them so they aren’t rubbing quite so uncomfortably against his still throbbing cock. “Let’s get inside,” he says.   
  
“Yeah, okay,” Sam says and the hope in his voice is almost enough to destroy Dean’s resolve entirely.   
  
“You need to sleep this off,” Dean says gruffly. He walks over to the door, unlocks it and goes inside. Sam follows and kicks off his shoes then drops into the bed. His face is definitely pouty now, Sam-the-kid again and Dean’s disgusted with himself and with Sam and with the whole fucking universe. But mostly with himself. It’s not Sam’s fault. Dean’s corrupted him somehow. Made him think that this was acceptable. He chucks his boots across the room in frustration and then heads into the bathroom. The shower is hot and the water feels like needles against his skin. His cock is still hard and he starts working it with his hand, thinking of Sam in the other room, doing the same thing he is. Even though he knows he’s just imagining it, he can hear Sam’s voice calling out “Dean!” which is enough to send him over the edge. He answers with a cry of “Sammy!” as he climaxes and leans against the wall of the shower, breathing heavy. The only consolation he has at this point is that at least  Sam won’t remember anything that happened in the morning. Unfortunately, Dean isn’t going to be able to forget it.  
  
* * *  
  
Sam’s not fucking with him anymore. And really, that’s the entire problem. If Sam was still being an asshole and flaunting himself in front of Dean just to watch him squirm, then Dean could go back to pretending Sam didn’t know a damn thing and more to the point, that Sam didn’t feel the same way. But Sam was back to changing in the bathroom. The other day, there was a sock on the door letting Dean know he was in the shower. And when Dean asked Sam if he wanted to blow off some steam at the local bar tonight, Sam politely declined, citing research. And okay. Fair enough. Sam does like to research. But usually he just brings his notes to the bar. So what the hell, then? The only logical explanation is that Sam remembers, and Sam thinks that Dean rejected him.   
  
And of course, the real problem with all of this is that Dean’s just really fucking bad at this to begin with. He doesn’t spend this much time analyzing his own behavior, let alone anyone else’s. How the hell is he supposed to know what Sam’s thinking? And isn’t Sam the one who’s all for talking? So why’s he so quiet all of a sudden?   
  
They’re on their way to Providence and have about 5 more hours to go before they stop for the night when Dean suddenly realizes that he’s not hearing Sam’s even breathing in the seat next to him anymore and he looks over. Sam’s awake, staring at him under half-closed lids. Fuck. That is  not  the kind of look that his baby brother should be giving him. Sam clears his throat and looks away. Dean pretends he didn’t notice. “Your turn to drive,” he says, his voice entirely too gruff. They swap and make the remainder of the drive in silence.   
  
When they finally arrive at the motel Sam goes in to get them a room since Dean’s been featured--and not flatteringly--on the evening news not too long ago for robbing a bank.  When he comes back out he’s carrying a key and his face has an apologetic look on it. “They only had a room with a single bed,” he says but Dean is too tired to care that things might get awkward considering the current state of their relationship. They didn’t stop last night, just slept at a rest stop on the side of the highway for a few hours so Dean isn’t really thinking about anything but a hot shower and real sleep at the moment, anyway. And he can always sleep on the floor. Wouldn’t be the first time. As soon as they’re inside, Sam starts stripping off his shirt to shower then, with a sideways glance at Dean, stops and makes his way into the bathroom.  
  
“You don’t have to do that,” Dean says, without thinking. He’s tired of this game. Tired of tiptoeing around Sam. Tired of not knowing what to say when the conversation should be easy. It’s exhausting, carefully choosing every word, analyzing it for how Sam might take it. It feels pointless to continue pretending. But the look Sam gives him makes him immediately regret saying a word and he closes his mouth without saying anything else. Sam disappears into the bathroom.  
  
Dean spends the next several minutes trying to resist following Sam in. If Sam remembers what happened between them, which his behavior pretty clearly suggests he does, he has to know Dean does as well; has to know that Dean was willing, eager even, returning Sam’s kisses as good as he got. So Sam knows. And Dean knows, now, that he’s not the only freak in this relationship. Sam feels the same way he does. But it doesn’t matter in the slightest how Sam feels if Sam doesn’t want to act on it.   
  
So he resists the temptation to open the door, even if he can’t stop thinking about going in there, stripping down and forcing Sam to admit to exactly what he’s feeling, even if the admission is less words and more kisses and touching and soapy bodies sliding against one another as hot water pours down over the two of them. Dean tugs his shirt off and sits down on the bed with a groan, trying to clear his head. He’s hard now and while he could wait for the shower, there’s no telling how long Sam will be in there. Sam likes to take long shower after a hard day’s drive and Dean really doesn’t want to wait to take care of this. He lays back on the only bed and just as he unzips his jeans the bathroom door opens and Sam walks out, hair soaking wet and wearing nothing but a towel. Dean jerks his hand away from his fly but Sam’s eyes follow and when he lifts them again there’s a smug satisfaction on his face that Dean really doesn’t think is appropriate for the situation at hand.   
  
“Sam... I don’t-” Dean stammers, but Sam’s smirk just widens into a smile.  
  
“You really gonna try and unring that bell, Dean?” Dean’s frozen in place as Sam’s towel falls to the floor. He closes his eyes and swallows very, very carefully. He doesn’t lick his lips. He’s pretty sure he didn’t lick his lips, anyway.  
  
“I can’t…I’m not,” Dean begins, searching desperately for the words, the right words to undo whatever it is he’s done to Sam to make him want this, to make him think this is okay.  
  
“You’re right Dean, you’re not,” Sam says, taking a step forward and leaning down so that his lips are right next to Dean’s ear.  “You’ve been ‘not’ for the last six months and I cannot take anymore of it. I’m sick of waiting and you not doing a damn thing. So I’m just going to stop giving you that option.”  
  
Dean swallows hard, fighting to maintain a grip on his objections but Sam’s breath is hot against his ear and Sam is so close he can almost feel his lips. Dean opens his mouth but the only thing that comes out is a groan and what the hell, that is NOT what he meant to say, dammit. But Sam takes that as an invitation and begins biting and sucking at the sensitive hollow at the base of his neck. His head is spinning, the heat of Sam’s breath against his neck almost enough to force him to give in to this thing between them but he’s got enough sense yet—just enough—to push Sam away. “Dammit Sam,” he says, slamming his fist into the bed. “This is not going to happen, do you understand me? I don’t…”  
  
Sam stumbles back a few steps. The expression on his face isn’t anger, just confusion. “You do,” Sam counters, searching Dean’s eyes for reassurance that he’s right, that he hasn’t read his brother entirely wrong. “You would have let me take you in that parking lot if that damn woman hadn’t opened up the door and shouted at us.”  
  
He looks so lost, uncertainty replacing the confidence that was there only moments ago, the little boy he was as ever at war in Dean’s mind with the man standing in front of him. Dean wants to erase all of the doubt, wants to kiss Sam until he never wonders again whether or not Dean wants him, all of him, right now. But he just can’t. They may have already crossed the line. May not ever be able to come back from this but he’s not going to go any further. He may be a selfish bastard but he’s already taken everything else Sam ever wanted—Jess, law school, a normal life—from Sam just by showing up at his house when their Dad went missing. He’s not going to take the one last shred of normal that either of them have, too.  “Please Sam,” he pleads, picking up the towel and holding it out to Sam. “You deserve better.”  
  
Sam ignores the towel, eyes boring directly into Dean’s and Dean is transfixed, can’t look away, holding his breath without realizing it as he waits for Sam to respond. He’s not sure whether he’s hoping that Sam comes to his senses and walks out the door or kisses him until he’s forgotten what his objections are. But Sam doesn’t do either of those things. Just stands there. Looking at him. Waiting.   
  
Dean is still frozen in place, can’t reply, can’t move himself up off that bed even though his brain is screaming at him to get out of there. Now. Run. Sam holds his gaze for another minute then lets his eyes travel to Dean’s lips, his jaw, roving over his chest, down his stomach, then finally to Dean’s crotch where his erection is still entirely too prominent. At last he looks back into Dean’s eyes again, raw hunger exposed in their depths. Dean exhales but it comes out more of a low moan than he intended.   
  
“My entire life I have been told what I want. What I deserve. Dad. You. Even this fucking demon we’re chasing has some sort of plan for me and you know what? Just once I want to decide for myself, okay?” Sam’s maneuvered himself between Dean’s legs now and he’s leaning over him, lips right next to Dean’s. “And I want this. I want you. And I’m tired of everyone—especially you—telling me I can’t have it. Look at me Dean,” Sam commands softly, straightening up to his full height again.   
  
“Sammy,” Dean says, voice cracking.   
  
“Look at me,” Sam says again. Dean is helpless to resist. He follows the same path with his eyes that Sam just traced along his body, stopping at last to rest on Sam’s erection. A guttural sound issues from his throat and this time, he does lick his lips.   
  
“Good Dean, that’s good. You like that, right? I can see it. Every time you look at me, so hungry for me,” Sam says, voice low and gravelly with want. “I’m not a little boy anymore. I can make my own decisions and I  choose this, okay? This is my choice. You aren’t doing this to me.”   
  
Sam’s leaning over him, lips so close Dean can almost fucking taste them,  needs to taste them and Dean’s done. He can’t fight this anymore. Just can’t.  He reaches out and laces his hands through Sam’s hair, closing the remaining distance between them and crushing his lips on Sam’s, teeth biting at his lower lip, drawing it in and sucking, feeling satisfaction at Sam’s sharp intake of breath.  He’s only got the upper hand for a second though before Sam’s forcing him backwards on the bed straddling him and nudging his legs apart. Dean complies and Sam fits himself between them, his cock grinding against Dean’s through the uncomfortable denim.   
  
Sam pulls away from him and Dean whines a protest but then he’s tugging at Dean’s jeans. “These need to go,” he growls and Dean couldn’t agree more. He wriggles them off and Sam takes them and tosses them unceremoniously into the corner then begins working at Dean’s boxers which are similarly discarded. Sam drops to his knees, trailing a finger along Dean’s chest and following the line of soft curls down his stomach. He pauses at Dean’s belly button and rubs his thumb in a slow circle, eliciting a gasp from Dean then reaches down and rubs his finger over the tip of Dean’s leaking cock. “Jesus Dean, so beautiful right now. Look at you, all hard and wet, waiting for me.”   
  
His tongue darts out and swirls around the tip of his finger. The sight of his brother’s tongue tasting him is almost too much for Dean. He whines, shifting on the bed and Sam’s smile at the sound is entirely too self-satisfied. Dean thinks he’s going to have to do something about that later, can’t have his little brother getting too damn arrogant for his own good. But not right now. Right now, less talk was needed. “Sam, swear to God you don’t stop talking,” he manages to say and that’s all it takes.   
  
Sam’s mouth is on his aching cock, hot and wet and Dean’s arching up into him, hands tangling in Sam’s hair. Sam’s mouth is everywhere, licking along the base one second, sucking at the tip and then swallowing all of him, his hand trailing after his lips, working the same rhythm. Dean’s lost all coherence now, just mumbling a disconnected series of praises, breathing heavy, hips canting slightly upwards. Sam takes the hint and forces Dean’s knees up wider, sliding his lips off of Dean’s dick, hand taking its place before Dean could protest. Then Sam’s mouth goes back to work, sucking his balls, tongue swirling, working them and Sam’s mouth is wet and hot and sloppy. He wants to throw his head back, wants to close his eyes and just enjoy the feeling but he can’t stop watching, can’t stop relishing in the fact that yeah, he’s had blow jobs before but this is  Sam  working his cock and somehow that makes it feel better than it ever has before. “God Sammy,” he keens. “So fucking good.”   
  
Sam switches back to his cock, tip of his tongue tracing along the underside. Dean’s impatient now, he’s been hard for so long and he’s so close he doesn’t think he can wait. He thrusts up against Sam, searching for more friction. Fortunately, Sam’s not in the mood to tease and he understands what Dean’s asking. His mouth again closes over Dean’s cock, methodical now as he moves along the length of it, licking and sucking, one hand still on Dean while the other hand drops to his own dick and curls around it, moving in rhythm with his mouth. Dean allows himself to close his eyes at last, tilts his head back as the tension curls in him, starting in the pit of his belly then spiraling outwards until it nearly consumes him. “So close Sam...gonna...” he manages before one final pull of Sam’s mouth brings him over. Sam pops off, licking Dean’s come as he climaxes, his hand still working his own dick until he moans a low “Dean,” and then Sam’s coming too, hard and fast against his hand. He falls forward, head resting against Dean’s stomach, shoulders heaving as he struggles to catch his breath.   
  
Dean’s hands are still tangled in Sam’s hair but he doesn’t move them, afraid if he does the spell will break and this moment will end. Terrified somewhere at the back of his mind that he can’t let himself think too hard about that when Sam finally looks up all he’s going to see in his eyes is revulsion for what they’ve just done. So instead he lays there, holding his breath and waiting. But when Sam finally looks up the only emotion in Sam’s eyes is satisfaction, more than just a little bit of relief and...okay. There’s love there, too. And now that he sees it, he wonders why he missed it for so long. Sam’s not hiding it. Sam’s never hidden it.   
  
“Took you long enough,” Sam says as though he can hear what Dean’s thinking. He’s suddenly all pain in the ass little brother again and Dean allows himself to relax, gives himself this moment. He growls and swats at Sam but Sam moves smoothly out of reach, standing up long enough to grab the towel and wipe himself off. Sam tosses the towel and moves them both up on the bed then curls up next to him  
  
“Don’t think this means I’m going to snuggle you every time,” he says, tender smile betraying the contentment that he’s feeling even as he tries to be gruff.   
  
Sam returns Dean’s smile. “Yeah Dean,” he says. “I love you too.” 


End file.
